Ink
by HelenOH
Summary: Love undeclared.


Arthur is writing at his desk as I wait for instruction. He is angry, disappointed, and a little hurt - a potent combination. I know he looks at me several times, eyes darting up and down from his paper, then back at me with insistence. But I do not look at him when I am feeling this way, guilty but completely devoted. If I would even just glance at him he would straight through my eyes- all of this love piercing straight at him. Tonight, in this moment, I dare not change a thing.

_"Is there anything else you require before I go?"_ I speak into the air away from him. I can sense him shifting in next of me. I hear the the rustle of his clothes, the soft rhythm of his breathing, I am always acutely aware of everything about him.

He doesn't say anything, just keeps writing. I can see his fine penmanship. The ends of his letters curl into elegant loops and his crosses and dashes slide into hard strokes. The tiny scratch of the quill shudders up my groin as if I am pen in his hands. My legs feel as weak as the ink he directs onto the parchment. I want to slip into the crease where the page dents with his touch. I will be whatever those words are and live in the place where his eyes alight upon.

_"You have nothing to say about your actions of today?"_ I hear his voice. _"Do you really think spending a whole day at a tavern and disregarding your duty to me is acceptable?"_

I still cannot look at him. I glance around the room instead. The room pulses with the sunset colors bright like the rare fruits and cheeses I see on the King's table. My eyes want to look at him but I am not going to let them.

I cannot tell him the truth that I was really off doing valiant things for him, so I must choose my lies carefully. I need a lie that is believable and doesn't make me look too much like an idiot. It shouldn't matter what he thinks, but it does. But I can not be too witty because he is also tosser of random objects, and he has good aim; one spot on the back of my neck is his usual target.

_"No sire, it was a momentary lapse … in judgement to, um,"_ I am stuttering, suddenly nervous, stroking the web of skin between my index finger and thumb.

_"You got into that bad habit when you met **Gwaine.**"_ His words are suddenly harsh and surprise me so much I turn my eyes toward him. _"It ends now, right?"_

Of course the minute I look at him I know it is a mistake. Not because he is always beautiful, but because the sun from the window takes this moment to glow behind him like a ringed crown, as if nature knows the great King he is going to be. I feel a powerful rush of warmth vibrating in my chest. I want to gush _"You're going to be the greatest king! I know it! know it, the best the world has ever known...",_ but I dare not.

_"Yes sire."_ Instead I lie because I do not know what he is asking. Because I don't know if I will have to use the "at the tavern" lie again. I lie to him all the time. I lie. I lie. And I will lie again to make sure he will be that King to free all those like me. I fear the cost will be his hatred of me for all those damn lies.

I tell myself that his hatred will not matter, he is never going to love me in the way I love him. There is something about me - my station, my dreaminess and hopeless clumsiness, my lack of brawn and handsomeness, all of this rubs him the wrong way. I have infinite faith in my role in his destiny but no physician will be able to heal the kind of wound that destiny inflicts on my poor heart.

* * *

><p>The room is full of odd feeling, covered with professional courtesy instead of our usual joking manner. Merlin is keeping his shoulders erect and his jaw stiff, a momentarily pugnacious look. But I see his hands furl and then clench into fists as if he is trying hard to hold on to his composure, fighting to suppress what he really wants to say to me. I don't know whether to look sternly at him and hand down a punishment, pat his back like a buddy and say <em>"no problem mate!",<em> or simply run off screaming in exasperation.

Sometimes the world seems to offer up an unexpected goodness. Who knows where Merlin came from and how he ended up here serving me. You take it and you don't question why it happened. Most of the time I do not need to know why he is still with me, just that he is and always will be. But when I can't find him, when he disappears, I feel like a poison has slipped into my veins. I think of what I have lost in the course of my life, friends who had died, people I would never know again. I don't want to lose Merlin. I don't want him disappearing into taverns, or into the woods, or to go anywhere without me.

Then I realize as I am just staring at him, wondering what to do with this young man, servant-what is he to me? I am looking at the black bangs that barely touch his white forehead and those incredibly full lips forming a hint of a smile. My fingers grow hot to touch, pull, push those lips into a pout and kiss them. I don't know what shocks me more the thought itself or the heavy ripple pleasure it sends through me. I feel desire run through my body, humming, pulsating, wonderful and intrusive at the same time.

My lust is utterly invisible except for the sweat on my hands. But in reality it is thick and seeps within me, like indelible and warm pigment forever staining my heart. This desire for him would be completely unbearable if it weren't so hilarious, so wrong.

I look down and rim a dried-out ink spot on my desk with my nail. _"Dismissed,"_ I tell him as coldly as I can muster.

With his arms stiffly at his sides, Merlin slightly bows and leaves.


End file.
